Amelia sat at her writing desk, its surface meticulously organized in a way that felt almost calming, an inkwell on one side, fresh parchment neatly stacked on the other. The room was silent save for the frantic scratch of Amelia's pen against paper.
She dipped her pen in the ink and began again, the rhythmic motion giving her a fleeting sense of control.
Dearest Aunt Margaret,
It is with great hesitation that I write to you now, as I do not wish to impose upon your kindness. However, circumstances compel me to ask a favor, one I do not make lightly.
Charlotte has been unwell of late, and it is my belief that time spent away from London's noise and pressures would be of great benefit to her. I humbly request that you allow her to stay with you in Bath for a month's time. I am certain that the calm and care you can provide will help her recover her health and spirits.
You know how deeply grateful I would be, and I hope you will not consider this request a burden. Please send word at your earliest convenience.
Yours most sincerely, Amelia
Amelia paused, reading over the words, searching for any sign of desperation in the ink. It would not do for Aunt Margaret to suspect the truth. Everything is fine, she reminded herself. Or at least, it would have to be until she found a way to make it so.
She folded the note carefully, sealing it with a small, swift press of wax, before reaching for another sheet of parchment. This time, the words came quicker—almost a rush to the page.
Genevieve,
I must see you soon. There is much to explain, though little I can commit to paper. There are complications that I dare not face alone. As ever, I rely on your strength and wisdom.
I will call upon you soon. Please do not fret, Charlotte remains blissfully unknowing and well, and I intend to keep it so.
Your loyal friend, Amelia
Setting her pen down, Amelia pressed her fingertips to her temples, her thoughts swirling like a thousand unanswered questions. Two letters. Two small steps toward a solution she could not yet see. Sending Charlotte to Bath would give her space, a chance to think clearly without the constant worry of her sister's health. Genevieve, at least, would help her make sense of this mess. Genevieve always has answers, Amelia thought, though she wasn't sure if it was a comfort or an additional weight on her shoulders.
Genevieve Worthington had not entered the world of the Ton by birthright but by the unpredictable hand of trade and fortune. Born into modest means, her family's fate shifted when her father bold enough to earn his wealth, selling grain no less, amassed a fortune that ensured she wanted for nothing.
She had fine gowns, a London townhouse, and enough polish to shine brighter than any debutante. Yet, for all her advantages, Genevieve knew from the moment she was presented to society that the ton viewed her as an interloper, no better than the wares her father sold.
The scalding whispers had started before the ink had dried on her first invitation card. Oh, they had accepted her presence in the abstract, her fortune was too large to ignore entirely, but the mothers of the ton had a way of smiling just wide enough to show teeth and whispering just loud enough to be heard. "Poor dear," they would say. "Her father is in trade, you know. And grain of all things! It simply doesn't bear thinking about."
Amelia Ashford, however, had not only thought about it, she didn't care. The two had come out in the same season, and from their first meeting, Amelia had declared that Genevieve would be her friend. Not just in the polite, backhanded way society often demanded of ladies, but truly her friend. Amelia had laughed off the whispers and insisted on introducing Genevieve at every ball and soiree as though she were the long-lost daughter of a duke.
The ton had grumbled, of course, but no one could resist Amelia's unrelenting charm or, perhaps more accurately, her unrelenting stubbornness. Genevieve had never forgotten it. When the whispers turned to shouts following The Incident, when Amelia's friends melted away like snow in spring, Genevieve remained. She'd promised herself she would keep Amelia safe, and Genevieve Worthington was not a woman who broke promises. Especially not to the only person who had ever truly seen her for more than the cut of her gowns or the ledger of her family's accounts.
She had just begun to blot the ink dry when a knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She glanced up, brow furrowed.
"Yes?"
The door opened just far enough to admit Mr. Smythe, the Ashford family's long-serving butler. His face was a mask of practiced calm, though Amelia noted the faintest hesitation in his posture.
"A letter for you, Miss Ashford," he said, holding out an envelope. "It was delivered just now, marked urgent."
Amelia rose and accepted the letter, her pulse quickening at the unfamiliar seal. Smythe withdrew without another word, leaving her alone. She turned it over, noting the thin scrawl of handwriting across its face. Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke the seal.
The letter read:
Miss Ashford,
It grieves me to think of the difficulties now placed upon your shoulders, though I assure you that I have taken it upon myself to prevent any unseemly whispers from spreading through London. A scandal, after all, would serve neither of us as your sister will soon be my wife.
However, such goodwill comes with the expectation of resolution. The matter of your father's debts cannot linger indefinitely. You will have two weeks, Miss Ashford. Two weeks to settle what is owed.
Should you fail to do so, I regret to inform you that I will be forced to claim Miss Charlotte's inheritance as my own. I have received all estate documents from your solicitor. He was all too happy to be done with you family. A grim necessity, I am sure you will agree, to avoid further unpleasantness.
Yours most humbly, William Thornton
The room seemed to close in around her, the air growing heavier with every word. Amelia sank back into her chair, crublimg the letter in her grip.
Two weeks.
Two weeks to save Charlotte. Two weeks to find a solution to a problem she hadn't created.
Amelia let the letter drop onto the desk, staring at it as though it might spring to life and throttle her. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to feel the full weight of her helplessness. How was she supposed to fix this?
But then her gaze flicked to the two letters she had penned earlier, still waiting to be sent. She would not let him win. She would not allow her sister to pay for her father's sins.
Then she was furious. Her father made a mess and had the audacity to die. Amelia wasn't even ruined but had been treated like a fallen women since The Incident because her father didn't love her enough to try and listen to reason. Mostly, Amelia was mad at herself for allowing her father to treat her like nothing. She kept the household running for years with scraps of allowance and yet it would all fall to William.
Rage, blinding rage was all Amelia could feel. She would not mourn the man who had done this to her. Amelia squared her shoulders. Two weeks.